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My day begins when I wake up. According to the clock, I’m late for the assembly in the stadium where I talk to more people about more crap I knew that everyone else was too stupid to realize a month and a half ago. Without taking a shower, I hurriedly pick a suit that’s not even nice to wear and rush through my ill fated morning. Right leg through right pant leg, left leg through left pant leg. Actually, I don’t even know if that’s it because I didn’t pay attention to which side of the pants the tag was on. Erasing that from my mind, I conclude that I just need to get out of the door, and all that matters is if I went to the bathroom or not.
The hazy sky looks about as pale as the terrain. It appears that today, the sun was also a late sleeper. With a sigh, I venture outside and bring the window scraper with me. The real Elwood Boyle still feels tired, still hibernating in that luxurious king-sized bed chamber. I begin the loathsome process of vehicle preparation in the chilly winter season. My fingers freeze, almost as if the blood inside the veins across my fingers is becoming solid, despite that I am wearing high-maintenance gloves. Although I cannot waste any more time, I sit down inside the SUV, warming my digits, seeing little harm in the situation. As I do this, I think to myself and evaluate the consequences of this dawn. Part of me decides that I should just forget what I’m doing if there’s nothing in the day that I should care about.
I shut off the heat and silence the car engine. If I had kept going, I could have arrived there only fifteen minutes behind schedule. There was no purpose, no potential at all in organizing this speech. The itinerary planned for today was my last concern. I wedge my hands in my pockets and walk up the driveway in a position as if I am wearing a straightjacket. I glance in the attended portion of the car’s front window, questioning the mirrored perspective. It emulates my solitary gait with taunting detail. I want demolish that posing reflection.
This impulsive violent idea entices my feeble patience. I access the garage and meet paths with a small industrial hammer. Quickly, I return to my neglected vehicle. With endless frustration, I let out a loud cry and break the useless, mocking windshield. Triangular pieces of glass encased in robes of frost shatter and sparkle like snowflakes. These elegant shards sparkle with beauty and reflect the sun that has just begun to arise between parting clouds. I keep smashing the edges the windshield with remaining unbroken material, only hungering for more to destroy. My breath is heavy and visible in the low temperature. On my left wrists, a few cuts had formed on that were imperceptible at the moment I took them in. Some blood pools inside of them, and I respond by licking my dry thumb and rubbing them to soothe the pain, albeit mild.
A nimble rabbit spots me in this noisy scene, takes interest, judges me, and scurries away. Why is that an archetypal instinct to attempt flight from the inevitable death of such a petite, powerless creature? In its last few moments of life, why does it choose to run in fear when death is only a few creeping moments away from capture? Has the hare ever thought to be bold and stand straight in its still structure, in all its glory, for its final breath? Why does it continue to run when there is no escape?
I unlock the door, walk through house, listening to the lonely echoes of my footsteps and observing the clouded dirty watermarks my shoes leave on the perfect floor. Finally, I reach the lavender bedroom. The colors sing me back to sleep. I hear them, and I can hear nothing else. It is as if I lie down in this world alone and solitary in a state of flux, numb and half-awake, resting until the world’s end awakens me, serving as some sort of figure to be glanced at and then passed by like a statue in an important museum exhibit. My imagination no longer inhabits my body as it drifts off into space for what seems like eternity. In my bed I lay for hours, not dreaming of anything at all besides an empty slumber. Perhaps this is how it would feel to be—
A strident alarm abruptly intercepts my reverie. It’s my cellular phone. Lazily reaching over, I realize that it is Lucius who called me. As common courtesy, I return his call. The line barely rings before he picks up. I listen, not quite wide awake, to his rambunctious rambling.
Lucius scolds, “Elwood, are you on your way? I haven’t seen your SUV yet, and they’re all here. They’re all waiting for you.”
In a tired monotone, I respond, “Tell them I’m not coming.”
“What?! People have driven from miles, and you know you’re very responsible. These people are magnets, and they are attracted to you and your discoveries. You’ve corrected their vision from the mirage we’ve believed since history was documented on paper. They’ve flocked like birds to our assembly to hear your reasoning. Only you can do this, Elwood.”
“No. You’re more qualified.”
“Is this some kind of joke? What would you expect me to do?”
“Tell them to pray.”
“But you’ve proven-“
“All I’ve proven is that if there ever was a God, we—No, I killed Him. I am not coming because no one is coming for me. They are coming to hear a requiem for their savior. The only faith humanity had, I’ve tried to drive away by striving for too much knowledge. I finally understand it now. Having something to tell us right from wrong, somewhere to whisper your hopes to, a well for your greatest wishes, strength to overcome life-destructing hindrances and obstacles… That tome of oracles they call the Bible is just as important as any laws of physics or numbers. Religion isn’t about what’s created how and what isn’t. There is no contradiction that religion makes the human a more delicate, domestic, docile being. Lucius, you are a holy man. You’ve been trained to preach and to make people pray. In a time like this, there’s not another option. Now, go show them what you can do. Even I will chant with you…in prayer…pleading for forgiveness for making a fool out of myself. Our race needs to be saved.”
“So surely, it would take some effect into the crowd and regain faith?”
“Surely… Why do words of such assertion smack so much uncertainty when spoken? Not surely, Lucius. Assuredly. Assuredly, our God will return for us. When he does, I, too, will come back a new man.” A bit of short silence follows this.
“Okay.”
I hang up. His final words fully confirm to me that he believes and understands me like a true companion. Wise men need not ask questions. Wise men perform actions. I was a smart man. I am ready to become wise.
I get on my knees and bite my lip.
“Can you hear me?” I mutter in a sheepish tone. I know that the motionless air in the master bedroom that I speak to will not provide coherence. I reiterate my statement louder, almost shouting, my voice cracking like a fissure. Emotions inside of me react virulently from my heavy past burdens and disbeliefs that have disgraced the world. They are exiled from my body and exit my mind and soul condensed as sincere salty crystalline tears through my true, lucid blue eyes.
Bittersweet flavors of this moment fade the colors of the scenery to a somber grayscale and decrescendos natural sounds to null. Everything is sucked into a vortex of silence like a vacuum. It allowed me to meditate internally and only focus on one thing in my mind. Although nothing else is present in the room besides me, it seems like the air and all swathed in it was providing something its full attention, waiting for any response, whether it would be the quiet dropping of a pin or a big man barging through the fancy door.
Suddenly, some power, some slow-pulsed frequency in my mind tells me that there is a very subdued presence in distant skies. I put my palms together and believe. I put all my trust in that starving, neglected slice of modernly forbidden hope. With all of my might, willing to sacrifice every material asset to my glorified name for one chance to regain prosper, even if everything isn’t enough, I prepare my position.
I pray.
Michaela was the smile on my face when it was storming outside. Every time the skies turned gray, as if it were about to thunder, she would call me to her house to listen quietly. In my older age, when I hear a storm, I hear the calm ringing of her voice as I remember my childhood and the downhill years that followed, but she always seemed to keep me happy enough.
She sat me down for breakfast: two eggs and a cup of coffee. Her home emitted a very classic mood. The curtains were a vintage green checker plaid, and the dining table was made from pine wood with a satin tablecloth with lace trimmings. No matter how cozy and warm her shelter may be, what really gives the place its glow was Michaela’s warm, peaceful heart. Her smile lit up the room. Unfortunately, Sunday morning was the last time I would see it.
The death of her parents had visibly aged the pitiful creature, although was only in her mid-twenties. Slowly, the youthful smile that enticed me to befriend Michaela dissolved, evaporated, and faded away, just as I did from her life. It was time for the move. My parents had packed up all of our belongings. I hadn’t played with Michaela for almost a month now, but my feelings drove me to knock on the door. Her grandmother opened the door, insisting that she wasn’t home. A droopy look masqueraded my face. My footsteps heavy, I sulked to mom’s truck and got inside. I didn’t say a word for the rest of the long car ride to Minnesota. I acknowledge this departure had branded incessant grief to Michaela like it had to me. Much too hard it is to bite the prospect that her own invisibility and silent weeping had met her with a terrible fate.
I still can’t forget her. No matter how hard I try to move on, her bright, warm face invasively tugs at my mind and heartstrings. She was the most beautiful girl I’d ever laid eyes on. The piercing blue-green lake in her eyes made a rainbow appear less lively in juxtaposition. I had to see my friend again, even if my life depended on it. Every time she crossed my mind, I’d feel the sweet but sour essence of mixed feelings and corrupted interpretations of past mementos. Tonight, there is nothing more to do, or to think about, in isolation, so I do the only thing I can. I rest myself, bringing my body onto a drifting cloud where there is no past, present or future; nothing, calmness, but a fantasy show that unrolls itself before my mind’s eye.
In my dream, we were there again. We were back in the warm house where we used to play together. Nostalgic scenery crowded her bedchamber. The scents of pine and oak and other rustic odors alerted my nostrils. It all seemed to short and simple to be a dream. I am not a lucid dreamer, but I’ve never had that firm grasp on reality where I could draw a line between what’s rational and what’s not.
I returned to the little house on Park Street where I spent my childhood. I was going to find Michaela Hill. I rapidly knocked on the door, my fist slamming, demanding a response, or at least an echo. The place seemed a bit beat-up. The air of somber flavors filled my nostrils. Something had happened here. An old woman with a resemblance to Michaela answered the door, and told me that she had moved away. I nodded and thanked her as she sat down in a rocking chair in front of a television that, oddly enough, was not powered on. Soon after, it began to drizzle, but I did not quicken my pace even as the precipitation grew heavy. I let it wash the fear from my face, but it did not wash the memories out of my hair or out of my mind. My desperate endeavor to find my true love was a treacherous journey. I haven’t been sober for three days. The breeze, more like forceful gusts of wind trying to steer me away from my mission, was of a very frigid wind chill and nipped at my unprotected digits. Still, I pressed on. I continued walking until I became lost, unable to retrace my steps back home.
I’d lost track of the days that I was looking for this girl. I carry a picture of her with me and nothing else. From time to time, I will ask passersby if they have seen my Michaela. Some say yes, some say no. By now, I would consider myself homeless. Winter has begun, so I found myself two gloves from separate pairs lying on the streets of a small market town that I frequent.
I ventured into nowhere again, foolishly, without food. I again collapse under tears, and soon drowned in salt all hope of the mission. However, I saw my Michaela at last. I was dizzy and weak, but I saw her, nice and young and beautiful again. I had grown old, weary, and stressed, but she was as beautiful as always. She was dressed warm and comfortable. The chills make me weary, but if any malefactor were to come of it, I would be safe from all harm. The snow had become a friendly fire to me, and I learned to bask in its blanketing just like the planet. I managed to hold one mitten-encased hand, vaporizing as if it was a translucent figure, but then I slipped into the snow. I fell asleep. Yet I am nothing more than alive, than I am that emptiness is one of the instinctive responses of the unconscious mind – one of the vile inevitable consequences, or feints, which give style to the deployment of failure.
